


Take Me Out

by Turquoster (Azurspur)



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Assassins & Hitmen, Bad Puns, Banter, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 11:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azurspur/pseuds/Turquoster
Summary: Erik is a mercenary.His target? Dr. Charles Xavier.What should have been a simple job quickly spirals into something else entirely, when the man mistakes Erik for his blind date.*Contains bad puns.





	Take Me Out

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetad, but hopefully coherent. Enjoy.

 

 

 

Sitting on a couch in the spacious lobby, legs crossed, with a newspaper held casually in his hands, Erik is a picture of nonchalance. 

 

Any second now, Dr. Charles Xavier, renowned geneticist, billionaire and philanthropist, CEO of Xavier Pharmaceuticals will be coming out of the elevator, on his way to meet with his adopted sister, Raven Darkholme, for their biweekly dinners. Xavier will go up to the front desk and greet the watchman by name. He will then proceed to politely decline the offer to call for the chauffeur, and wheel himself out to signal a taxi, as he’s done every single time for the past month. 

 

Erik isn’t even sure  _why_ he has a chauffeur.  

 

Absently, he adds this glaring unnecessity to his list of Reasons Why Xavier Must Die. Granted, it isn’t a very long list, and some of the items on it are obvious manifestations of his frustrations  _(Reason 4:_ _Thinks tweed is still an acceptable fashion choice)_ , but the exercise has kept Erik on track.  

 

He has a job to do.  

 

Never mind the fact that his target radiates an aura of rainbows and butterflies, or that most of his acquaintances are convinced that the sun shines out of his, admittedly shapely, backside. (Not that he’s noticed, of course; Erik is a professional.) 

 

People tend to believe all sorts of things. Some of the worst dirt bags Erik has come across in his dismal career as a mercenary have been absolutely charming, manipulating people left and right with none being the wiser. Besides, the questionable on-goings at Xavier Pharmaceuticals are reason enough for him to execute the job. 

 

Reaffirmed of his motivations, Erik glances at his watch, and suppresses a frown. 

 

Late.  

 

In all the time he’s spent monitoring Xavier he’s observed that, for all that the geneticist seems to exist in a state of organized chaos, he seldom keeps his appointments waiting. It is something that Erik could appreciate. When he got past the socks hanging off of the TV screen, of course. 

 

_He’s fine,_ Erik tells himself when Xavier fails to appear in the next five minutes.  _Probably busy picking_ _out his fashion disaster for the evening._

 

Eight minutes in, he decides to go over his game plan. 

 

Follow target to the restaurant. Ensure that there’s no change in his agenda. Wait out dinner with the sister. Get into position near alleyway. Maintain surveillance until the sister leaves. Target should commence routinely stroll home. Apprehend target in the dark. A clean slit across the throat. Take valuables to make it look like a mugging. Contact client. Get paid. 

 

A walk in the park. If only his target would show up...   

 

At the twelve minute mark, Erik is biting the inside of his cheek, debating going up to the penthouse to see what the hold up was. What if there had been an accident? What if Xavier had snagged his wheels on one of those infernal cardigans he has laying around and banged his head on the coffee table? It was an entirely plausible situation.  

 

Distantly, Erik wonders why he cares. 

 

_Because you have a job to do,_ his brain whispers. And it wouldn’t look very good on his street cred if the job did itself for him, now would it? 

 

_No,_ he grumbles to himself, idly flipping the page and settling back for the long haul. 

 

By the time his target is fifteen minutes late, Erik’s fingers are white around the newspaper, nerves on the fray as his mind conjured up grotesque images of Xavier bleeding out on his carpeted floor, too disorientated to reach out for help with his telepathy, and no one to question his whereabouts until his sister finally tired of waiting and barged into his flat, only to find unseeing blue eyes drowned in copious amounts of blood— 

 

“Hello.” 

 

Erik snaps back to reality. His hand tenses at his side, ready to defend himself with any metal within reach, as he lowers the paper—and promptly draws a blank. 

 

Blue eyes. Hovering right in front of him.  

 

Very much alive, and, currently, sparkling with remorse. 

 

“...what?” Erik says, managing to shake off the disturbing mental imagery enough to realize that he is being spoken to. By his target. Who wasn’t supposed to have noticed him at all. Let alone struck up a conversation. 

 

Shit. 

 

Xavier’s expression wavers between uncertainty and honest regret.  

 

“I was just apologising for my horrid disregard of the time. I know it’s inexcusable, I do, it’s just that I had an early lecture this morning with the most unruly batch of students, and I  _know_ I’d set an alarm beforehand but my phone decided to pull a disappearing act...and you probably don’t care about that.” He cuts himself off, skittish gaze locking onto Erik’s. “Have...have you been waiting long?” 

 

Erik blinks.  _Fifteen minutes and twenty one seconds too long, yes.  
_

 

When no verbal response is forthcoming, Xavier shoots a glance at the clock on the wall, and winces. “I really am sorry. Punctuality is usually a top priority, if you can believe it.” Blue eyes look at him imploringly. Erik is still a little hung up on the fact that his target is  _apologising_ for being late to his own assassination.  

 

He’d known Xavier was polite, but this is definitely pushing some limits. 

 

The telepath’s face falls a little. He pushes his chair back. 

 

“Perhaps this was a mistake. I completely understand if you’d rather not go through with this anymore.” Erik must look more distraught than he’d thought, because Xavier gives him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about Raven, I’ll let her know that it didn’t work out; she might be disappointed, but she’ll come around soon enough.” 

 

Xavier bids him goodbye, and it isn’t until he’s rolling away like a particularly despondent puppy on a skateboard that Erik finds his voice. 

 

“Wait.” 

 

The wheelchair stops. Xavier regards him patiently. 

 

“I just want to clarify,” Erik says, watching him carefully. “You...you know what you’re signing up for?” 

 

Hope breaks through blue eyes like sunlight on a cloudy day.  

 

“Of course,” Xavier says, fiddling with the sleeves of his cardigan. “Though I must confess, I’ve never done this sort of thing before.” 

 

_Of course you haven’t,_ Erik thinks incredulously. But the man almost looks  _embarrassed_ about the fact, and just what is going on here? 

 

To Xavier, he nods. “That’s...understandable.” 

 

“Is it?” Xavier looks surprised, then realization dawns. “Raven told you that, didn’t she? You really mustn’t believe the things she says. Apparently, the gross exaggeration of facts is something of a fad with her generation.” 

 

Erik can’t help but feel like he’s missing something. 

 

“Right.” He nods again, trying to formulate some semblance of a plan. 

 

Red lips stretch into a relieved smile. Xavier rolls himself closer to Erik. “Despite anything you might have heard, I  _am_  certain about this.” he tells Erik. “The question is, do  _you_ know what you’re signing up for?” 

 

Does he? 

 

“I do.” Erik replies, to both the doubts springing up in his head and the man sitting across from him. The man that he has to kill. Because he is a professional, and has been at this for too long to shy away in the face of one target who might be a little off his rocker. 

 

The answer earns him a pleased grin.  

 

Xavier begins moving towards the door, and Erik stumbles after him, legs having fallen asleep on that prolonged stake out. “Where to?” he tosses over his shoulder, between exchanging pleasantries with the watchman. 

 

Erik stares at him, dumbfounded. Is he asking Erik to choose the place of his death? Would it be considered rude if he told him that he had no preferences? One advantage of his abilities was that almost any location was a potential artillery. 

 

“Uh...” 

 

Xavier spins the chair around with expert ease, clearly noting Erik’s indecision. “There’s a lovely place only a few blocks away that serves the most delicious stake, if you’d like to go there?” 

 

What.  

 

“I...what?” 

 

They pause at the entrance. Xavier huffs. 

 

“You  _do_ intend to take me out,” he says, an underlying question. There’s the slightest crease between his brows, and dare Erik say, he actually looks  _annoyed.  
_

 

Christ.  Maybe the man really does have a death wish. Not as though Erik could’ve known any better, of course; thirty days of surveillance from the next building over is hardly enough to obtain a sense of a person’s sanity. He knew there was something wrong with the man, no one was that inherently good without a catch. 

 

And who the  _hell_  wanted a steak before being murdered? 

 

Erik could feel the onset of a headache. His target very possibly was clinically insane. Still, he supposed the least he could do before killing the man was treat him to dinner. As incredibly preposterous and plain wrong as the idea was.  

 

“Yes,” Erik says. Hopes his voice comes out more composed than he feels. “Where ever you’d like to go.” 

 

“Alright, then.” 

 

They exit the building, Erik following helplessly behind as Xavier leads the way.  

 

In the subsequent silence, he reviews his situation and what it might mean for his job. The element of surprise was hardly in his favour. The best he could hope for was to pounce upon Xavier when he least expected. Unfortunately, this also put him on a stringent time limit. The anti-psionic drugs he’d taken were the best on the market, but they would only last so long.  

 

Wait. 

 

Somewhere, he registered the sound of Xavier’s voice talking to the receptionist at the restaurant they’d apparently reached. 

 

What if this was some elaborate ambush? Xavier could very well be hoping to wait out the effects of the blockers, until he could use his telepathy to stop any attempts at his life. Just because he had a smile capable of curing cancer didn’t mean he was to be underestimated. 

 

Erik tunes out the conversation between Xavier and the server, watching him from across the table. 

 

_What are you planning?  
_

 

He’s still in a bit of a daze when Xavier hands him a menu, and starts chattering about the food offered. 

 

“...Stake?” Erik repeats. 

 

Xavier hums. “One of my absolute favourite dishes, here.” He pauses, seeming to consider something. “Of course, they do have a kosher menu, if you’d prefer that instead?” 

 

Erik is completely bewildered, suspecting failure of the drugs, before Xavier pointedly jerks his chin at Erik’s wrist, where his sleeve has ridden up and the star of David pendant hangs in clear view. 

 

Oh. 

 

“My parents were Jewish,” he says unnecessarily, surreptitiously adjusting his jacket. The symbol had hung around his mother’s neck for as long as he could remember. It was the only part of her that Erik had, now. “I... try to keep Kosher when I can, but I’m not very particular about it.” 

 

Xavier gives him an understanding nod, and doesn’t ask any questions.  

 

Erik is, absurdly, grateful. 

 

They order drinks (water for Erik; he can’t get drunk on the job. Xavier has no such compunctions), and the telepath asks for a fancy-sounding steak. The server leaves, thoroughly charmed, offering them a complimentary piece of cheesecake each. 

 

Cue awkward silence. 

 

The minutes tick by at a snail’s pace. Erik thinks about saying something to ease the other man’s steady attack on his glass of water. Then he remembers that this was  _his_ idea. What did he think they were going to do, swap embarrassing anecdotes and braid each other’s hair? 

 

Finally, Xavier sighs.  

 

“I...Am I boring you?”  

 

Hardly. This has to be the most outlandish job he’s ever taken on. 

 

“Whatever gives you that idea?” Erik asks, because the man truly looks dejected at the prospect, and Erik can’t fathom why.  

 

He waves a hand around, vaguely. “Forgive my presumption, but you don’t really seem to be enjoying yourself.”  

 

For some reason, Erik feels irrationally defensive. 

 

“And how would you know that?”  

 

Another sigh. “I’m sure Raven’s told you about my mutation. Telepathy.” At the mention, the fear that his mental defence isn’t strong enough returns. Erik nods slowly. “Well, it allows me to sense a person’s emotions, the thoughts floating near the surface of their minds, without my actively seeking them out.” 

 

Erik silently curses the inadequate drugs, feeling terribly exposed as he looks into blue eyes. 

 

Perhaps sensing unease, Xavier tentatively adds, “Not that I would attempt to intrude on your thoughts, of course. You have my word on that.” 

 

His word. How very reassuring. 

 

Then again, Erik supposes that’s all he can bank on for now. He clears his throat, hoping to subdue the atmosphere. He’s not going to lie and say that he trusts the telepath, but he can try to make things a little less strained. “It’s not you,” he begins, inwardly cringing at the cliché. “This is my first time doing something like this, too.” 

 

“Raven can be quite persuasive when she wants. Xavier shares a wry smile, which quickly turns sad. “She just worries about me. I haven’t exactly given her reason not to, I suppose...not since the accident.” 

 

The metal of his wheelchair seems to sharpen in Erik’s awareness. 

 

“Can I ask what happened?” 

 

Xavier shrugs. “There’s not much to tell. I’m sure the tabloids have stretched the incident, but it was a simple case of hit and run. There was a drunk driver, and an extremely ill timed grocery run.” He cracks a small smile. “I have since then developed a horrid aversion to Pringles of the sour cream and onion variety, though.” 

 

The information he’d dug up on Xavier beforehand was far more detailed. A spinal injury, thanks to the shrapnel lodged in his lower back. Diagnosed with paraplegia. Lucky to be alive, the doctors had reported, but would likely never walk again. 

 

“They never caught the driver?” Erik asks, because there was no court case following the accident. 

 

“No. It hardly matters, now. What’s done is done.” The air around their table grows heavy in wake of the sombre moment. Then Xavier shakes his head lightly. “Goodness, look at me, ruining the mood already. I really have lost my touch.” 

 

“I don’t mind,” Erik says. He’s dealt with enough tragedy to not shy away from the face of it. 

 

Xavier sends him a grateful smile. He leans forward to rest his chin in his palm, portraying genuine interest. “I would like to know more about you, though.” 

 

Of course he would.  

 

“What do you want to know?”  

 

Blue eyes gleam. “Your name, for starters. Raven only told me that you were a mutant, and that you’d be the devilishly handsome one waiting for me, all in black.” 

 

Huh. 

 

“You think I’m devilishly handsome?” 

 

Xavier’s smile widens. “Raven’s words.” He points out, appraising as he meets Erik’s eye. “But, yes.” 

 

And Erik’s never really cared for his looks beyond which they could assist him in getting things done, but he gets the strangest urge to preen under the glittering blue gaze. There’s really no stopping the slight curl of his lips even if he tried. 

 

“You’re quite lovely yourself.” When Xavier flushes, he extends a hand, smirking. “My name is Erik.” 

 

Soft fingers slide against his palm. “Charles. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

 

“Likewise.” Erik continues before he can question the words falling so carelessly out of red lips, “So, how does one usually do this?” 

 

Xavier’s smile never fades. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he shrugs, “But I think we’re doing alright thus far.” He picks up his glass, mindlessly swirling a finger along the rim, biting at his lip, and Erik mechanically reaches out for his own drink, swallowing dryly. 

 

If he spends the next few minutes before their food arrives struggling to keep his eyes off of that mouth, only he has to know. 

 

But then the universe only decides to make his life more difficult. 

 

The steak is served with a ‘bon apetit’ from their server, receiving an indulging grin from the telepath for her efforts. Erik feels a spike of irritation at the obvious flirtation, but his inhibitions quickly switch tracks when Xavier digs in, devouring bites at a breakneck pace, and all the while those lips muffle the most obscenely erotic noises he’s ever heard across a dinner table. 

 

It’s all Erik can do to not choke on his own mouthful, staring at the man in a strange mix of worried arousal. 

 

Mostly worry, though, because there is no way in hell that he’s going to be harbouring sexual fantasies regarding his target. He is a  _professional._ Erik repeats the phrase in his mind like a desperate mantra, watching as guileless eyes slide up when realizing they’re being monitored. 

 

“What?” he asks, swallowing his bite. Erik does not follow the movement of his throat with his eyes. 

 

He pushes his own plate towards the almost empty one. 

 

“Do you want mine as well?” 

 

Charles blushes furiously, freckles standing out in stark contrast. When he immediately slows down, staring down into his food, Erik raises a brow. 

 

“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, only half joking. At an uncertain flutter of long lashes, he adds, “I was only under the impression that billionaires subsisted on a diet of caviar and self importance, with a touch of condescension.” 

 

That seems to make him relax. Charles goes back to idly stabbing at his steak. 

 

“Conforming to stereotypes, Erik?” 

 

“Inferring from personal experiences,” Erik corrects. 

 

Charles hides a smile behind his indignation. “Yes, well. My mutation happens to come with an accelerated metabolism and a higher calorie requirement, so there. You should’ve seen my step brother Cain at the dinner table, though.” 

 

“Was he as bad as you?” Erik inquires, though the name sounds vaguely familiar.  

 

Charles looks at him gravely. “Worse.” 

 

Erik offers a sympathetic wince, and turns to his own meal with a suppressed smile. It hasn’t escaped Erik’s notice that he’s been doing that a lot throughout this event with rather grim foundations.  _Sunshine and rainbows,_ he thinks distractedly. He suddenly very clearly understands why people behave the way they do around Charles Xavier. 

 

He processes this realization with another bite. “You know, you’re not exactly what I expected.” Charles looks up indulgently. 

 

“Oh? And what did you expect?” 

 

Erik pretends to deliberate. “An arrogant spoiled snob with too much money and a book stuck up his nose.” 

 

“You don’t hold back,” Charles notes with amusement. “Although, I may have to disappoint you on the academic front. I am quite the nerd, and proud of it.” 

 

“So I hear. Genetics.” 

 

“Mutations,” Charles nods, face lighting up. “And all its endlessly intriguing connotations in regards to the human species. After all, it was mutations that took us from single celled organisms to— 

 

“—the dominant forms of reproductive life on the planet?” 

 

Surprise flashes through blue eyes, accompanied by an unadulterated delight that just about makes him  _glow_. As if Erik has paid him the highest possible compliment known to man. “You’ve read my thesis.” 

 

Erik is almost reluctant to reply. 

 

“Parts of it,” he admits, almost tentative in his next words. He settles for a vague, “You make some interesting points.” 

 

Intelligent eyes sense the omission. “But?”  

 

“Honestly?” Erik steels himself for the disappearance of that radiance. Brilliant smile or not, the one area he can’t compromise on are his ideals. “Your ideas on integrationist policies are naive at best; at worst, a danger to mutant survival.” 

 

He bravely holds Charles’ gaze through the ensuing quiet. 

 

When the man speaks, there’s not a hint of offense in his tone. “I take it you’re a separatist, then?”

 

If anything, he actually looks thrilled at the prospect of a differing opinion. Well then. Erik certainly won’t disappoint.  

 

“I prefer the term realist. Humans cannot coexist with mutants. They’re much too wrapped up in their fear and bigoted opinions to ever be willing to accept us into their society as equals.” 

 

Charles follows attentively. 

 

“Humans fear what they don’t understand. In fact, we all do. But if we could change all of that fear and mistrust, prove to them that mutants aren’t a threat, I believe, in time, we could achieve peace.” 

 

Erik scoffs. “Peace was never an option.” It was a bitter truth he’d known from a very young age, only reinforced through the years as the world continued to fail him. “You are a fool, if you think that diplomacy can solve anything. The humans have already raised their arms against us, on multiple occasions. It is time we raise out own. Fight fire with fire.” 

 

“—and watch the world burn?” Charles leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “That hardly seems ideal.” 

 

“No,” Erik agrees, “It’s reality.” 

 

They stare each other down for a moment. Erik feels a little off kilter at the open expression, a clear absence of hostility despite the incendiary subject matter. The man truly doesn’t hold his opinions against him. 

 

It’s...refreshing. 

 

Finally, Charles shakes his head, setting his cutlery down. “You spin a good argument, my friend, but to indulge further...we’d probably be here all night. I would love to continue this discussion another time, though, over a game of chess, perhaps?” Before Erik can respond, possibly in the affirmative or to ask how the telepath knew that he played, he excuses himself to the restroom, flashing him a bright smile. 

 

As soon as he’s gone, Erik slumps in his seat, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands.   

 

They would not be seeing each other again. There would be no further discussions, or games of chess to be played on some hypothetical date. Erik has been tasked to kill this man. Before the night ends, Erik will slice into the pale skin of his throat, and leave him to bleed on the pavement. He would do it in one, clean strike; quick and painless, because those eyes shouldn’t have to suffer. 

 

But he will do it. Has to. 

 

There’s plenty of reasons for Erik not to feel guilty about it. Condoning unethical research on fellow mutants, for one. That was the tid bit that had led him to accepting his client’s proposal. Faintly, Erik wonders just who would want Charles dead, and suddenly he realizes why the name Cain had sounded so familiar. His step-brother. 

 

Erik feels a little sick. 

 

He’s not the only one, judging by the ashen tinge of Charles’ face when he returns and quietly slips into his seat. His lips look bitten red, and he doesn’t meet Erik’s gaze, eyes a little hazy. In spite of himself, Erik is concerned. 

 

The irony is jarring, really. 

 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

 

Charles jerks a little in place, looking up at him with troubled eyes. At length, he nods. “Just a little tipsy,” He offers up a weak smile; the dullness of his eyes tells a different story. 

 

“Maybe we should go.”  

 

Bizarre dying wish be damned. 

 

“Already?” Charles motions towards his plate, attempting a playful smile. “But you haven’t finished your dessert yet,”  

 

Erik keeps his eyes on the man. “I’m not very hungry.” He really isn’t. Not when the knowledge of what he’s about to do is making his stomach roil in disgust. 

 

“I see. I’ll call for the check, then.” 

 

Erik watches the man summon the server, a distinct dissonance in his disposition, even acknowledged by the woman. Those blue eyes turn back to him, so stupidly trusting. 

 

Erik can’t do this anymore. 

 

“Let’s stop this.” He says, elaborating from behind a clenched jaw when Charles sends him a questioning look. “This...pretence. I never should have agreed to this, it was a bad idea from the start. I only did it because I thought—you wanted—" He cuts himself off, eyes turning cold. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe this is ok for you, but it’s not for me.” 

 

Silence. Erik hadn’t meant to confess that. 

 

“Whatever do you mean, Erik?” 

 

Apparently, Charles has decided to feign ignorance. Anger curls hot and sudden in his stomach, and he releases his frustration by reaching out with his powers to anchor Charles’ wallet inside his pocket when the check arrives.  

 

Charles looks at him in quiet curiosity. 

 

“Telekinesis?” 

 

Erik forks over his own money, simultaneously levitating the silverware off the table. “Metals only.” 

 

“Fascinating.” 

 

Erik ignores the remark, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Shall we?” he says, and, thankfully, Charles follows after him without protest. If he had, Erik fears he might have let him go. 

 

He tries to ignore the inquisitive gaze burning into his face as he leads them some ways down the sidewalk, walking at a brisk pace. He turns into the first alley they come across, using the metal of Charles’ wheelchair to pin him up against the side of a building. In the blink of an eye, he has a blade pressed to the telepath’s neck, stepping closer to completely box him in. 

 

If Charles is surprised, he doesn’t show it, peering calmly up at Erik.  

 

“So you  _are_  trying to kill me.” 

 

The statement takes Erik aback a little. “Of course I am.” At the considering look in Charles’ eyes, he can’t help but ask, albeit sarcastically, “What did you  _think_ I was doing?” 

 

Red lips move to form words that leave Erik complete and utterly blindsided. 

 

“Taking me out on a blind date.” 

 

Erik blinks. That was probably the last thing he ever expected to hear for an answer. It has to be a joke, a stroke of humour to lighten up the situation. But no, Erik realizes the longer he looks into honest blue eyes, free of any signs of sadistic mirth. He’s completely serious. 

 

He has to be lying, then. But Erik can’t imagine why he’d want to. 

 

And the more he thinks about it, the more everything that happened in the past few hours seems to, to his horror, make  _sense_. 

 

“You thought,” he says, slowly, incredulously, “That I was your  _date_?” 

 

Charles hums. 

 

“It does sound rather ridiculous now, doesn’t it? You can imagine my surprise. I thought I had overheard wrong; people do think strange things, and you didn’t provide any evidence to the contrary.” 

 

Erik stares. 

 

“I thought the dinner thing was some unconventional dying wish,” he says weakly, mind racing with a barrage of thoughts, that Charles is probably privy to, seeing as he’s clearly strong enough to override the anti-psionic pills,  if they haven’t worn off by now. “Besides, you’re a  _telepath._ How could you not know?” 

 

This earns him a withering glare. “I was quite serious about not reading your mind, you know. And your surface thoughts were far from threatening, until the very end.” Erik recalls thinking about blue eyes and red lips, and reluctantly admits that it’s true. 

 

The embarrassment doesn’t pull away from his disbelief, though. 

 

He went out on a date. With his target. And didn’t even realize it. 

 

(And actually had a better time than he’s had on  _real_ blind dates, pathetic as that is.) 

 

What. The actual fuck? 

 

Somewhere outside his bubble of panic, Charles exhales. 

 

“I suppose this is a long time coming,” he muses, looking out at the street contemplatively. “Goodness knows you earn yourself some enemies when you get to be where I am. I am curious, though; how much did they offer you to kill me?” 

 

Inadvertently, Erik winces at the phrasing. “Five hundred grand.” 

 

The telepath quirks a brow. “Only? I would’ve thought I was worth  _at least_ a few million dollars.” Erik is inclined to disagree. There’s no sum of wealth in the whole goddamn universe that could even begin to make up for the loss of that glorious light shining through blue eyes. Erik can’t think of a reason why anyone would feel any different, at any rate. “Who is it, then?” Charles asks curiously, not a touch concerned about talking to his would-be murderer.

 

Erik sags where he stands. The blade hovers between them, a picture of indecision. 

 

“Your stepbrother. Cain Marko.”  

 

When that only yields a look of disappointed acceptance, he probes, “Mind telling me what you did?” 

 

“Didn’t mention that, did he?” Blue pierces into gray-green. “No, he knew that wasn’t the way to get to you. Uncharacteristically insightful of him.” The blade jerks impatiently. Charles eyes it with barely concealed humour. “This is about Xavier Pharmaceuticals, I’d imagine. After my father died, Kurt took over the company, found a way to cut me off from my inheritance. I was fine with it, over at Oxford at the time, right up until I realized what a proper mess he’d made of everything. Illegally assimilated assets. Mutant experimentation.” Charles takes a breath, the only sign of unsettlement so far. “I couldn’t let it go on. So I intervened.”  

 

“...Oh.” 

 

Charles shoots him a knowing smile. It doesn’t help. 

 

Erik doesn’t think anything could, seeing as he is apparently the most colossal idiot in the entire history of mutant kind.

 

The knife zips away to embed itself into the side of a dumpster, as far from Charles as possible, as if ashamed of the fact that it had nearly ended a precious life. Xavier Pharmaceuticals was engaged in illicit activities. Charles Xavier was trying to  _stop_  said activities. And he could’ve been killed for it. 

 

Erik thinks about joining the blade in the dumpster to wallow in his shame. 

 

Charles, for his part, watches him silently. 

 

“I was going to kill you,” Erik says. 

 

“Yes. And now you won’t.” 

 

Erik swallows thickly, “No. Before, I’d thought... you were...and I just...” 

 

“I know.” A gentle wave of reassurance pervades his mind. Erik can sense that the man truly means it, bless his heart of literal gold. “It’s alright.” 

 

He shakes his head, deep in the throes of his guilt. “I could’ve killed you. Without ever knowing the truth. You wouldn’t be alive to demolish another steak ever again.” 

 

“The beauty of a move lies not in its appearance, but in the thought behind it.” 

 

“Nimzowitsch.” Erik hangs his head. He wonders how much of this calm understanding stems from that glass of wine. He wonders if he should leave, now that he’s forfeited the job. Before he does something even more stupid. “That’s hardly the same thing, Charles.” 

 

Charles cocks his head. “Isn’t it? There’s more to you than just pain and anger, Erik. You’re a good person, I’ve felt it.” 

 

Erik looks up miserably. “I kill people for a living. I could probably rip the blood out of your body through the iron in it, if I wanted to.” 

 

Charles doesn’t miss a beat. “And I could make you forget this night, erase all your memories, take away everything that makes you who you are, before turning your own powers against you. Or leave you hopelessly wandering the streets, if it suits my fancy.” Underneath the levity, his words are shadowed; Erik is acutely aware that every single one rings true. 

 

Touché _.  
_

 

Erik looks at Charles helplessly. His misgivings about his own powers seem silly in comparison to the dizzying strength of the telepath’s. “It appears that we are at a stalemate,” he says, though he wonders if he was ever truly in control the whole night. 

 

Charles only smiles back, “So it does.”

 

Companionable silence blankets the dank alleyway, as they both take a moment to gather their thoughts, because  _what happens now?  
_

 

Erik is very studiously trying not to think about never seeing Charles again, and failing spectacularly at that, when the telepath speaks up again, clearing his throat. 

 

“So. I would like to know, if you’d be interested in trying to take me out again?” 

 

It’s a moment before the familiar words strike a chord in Erik’s memory. 

 

Of course. The innuendo that started this whole mess. He feels torn between laughing and crying. Or both. Probably both. 

 

Then the insinuation behind the phrase hits. 

 

Erik looks at Charles, a little wide eyed. Blue eyes regard him expectantly, so he tries to be diplomatic, ungluing his tongue from the roof of his mouth to rasp, “Depends.” 

 

"On?” The telepath raises a brow, and Erik realizes that he’s  _serious.  
_

 

Well then. Never look a gift horse in the mouth and all. 

 

In spite of himself, Erik relaxes. “Whether or not I’m going to be subjected to more of your terrible puns.” Charles’ eyes freaking  _twinkle_ in the faint street lights. Erik feels the emergence of a sapling of hope when the telepath bites his lip thoughtfully, before sighing dramatically. 

 

“I suppose things are going to come to a very sticky end for me, tonight, then.” 

 

The subtle inflections in the sentence click, and Erik huffs out a surprised laugh before he can stop himself. Charles is still nibbling at his lower lip, looking at Erik in way that makes something hot and desperate ignite in the pit of his stomach, eyes lighting up with Erik’s realization. 

 

He strides forward, caging the man in, his hands digging into the metal arm rests of the wheelchair. 

 

“Shut up,” he tells Charles, entranced by the way red lips are turned up into a smug smile.  _God_ , the things he wants to do with that mouth. Has been wanting to do all night. 

 

There’s a spark of challenge in sapphire eyes. The telepath leans forward, breathes out in one intoxicating puff of air,

 

"Make me.”

 

Erik is helpless to oblige. 

 

 

* 

 

 

Later, back at Charles’ place, when their minds are buzzing with alcohol and desire, Charles phone begins to spasm violently. 

 

He huffs into Erik’s neck, irritated. The mercenary shoots him an amused look before dutifully floating the offending device to where he’s sprawled across Charles’ lap. Charles looks over reluctantly, and together they observe the slew of incoming texts from his sister. 

 

_Oh my god_

_Charles_

_I’m so sorry_

_I literally just got Azazel’s message_

_That’s the guy you were supposed to meet, btw_

_He got caught up in some family emergency, apparently, says he’s sorry_

_...how much do you hate me right now?  
_

 

Erik blinks, has a brief moment of worry that maybe Charles would rather be here with this Azazel character, who frankly is a complete dick for standing Charles up, but he can’t imagine that anything could be worse than attempted murder. Blue eyes shoot him an exasperated look. 

 

“Relax, darling. You’re the only one I want here with me.”  _In case me shoving my tongue down your_ _throat gave you the wrong idea._

 

Charles earns himself a nibble on the earlobe for that, but warmth kindles in Erik's chest.

 

“Aren’t you going to respond?” Erik asks, Nodding at the phone. Charles looks contemplative for a moment. Then, with almost inhuman speed, he stretches his arm out and takes a selfie. With a downright evil smile, he sends the picture of Erik straddling him in his chair, Charles’ neck already blooming with evidences of their activities. 

 

A beat passes. Then, 

 

_WHO IS THAT  
_

  _HE’S GORGEOUS BUT_

  _HOW_

_WHAT_

_WHEN_

_WHERE_

_CHARLES.  
_

 

_Glad you approve, sister dear.  
_

 

With that, Charles exits the chat and tosses the phone onto the recently vacated arm chair across the chessboard. He turns back to Erik, serenely ignoring the violent buzzing that follows. 

 

“Cruel,” Erik remarks, looking away from the seizing device. 

 

Charles hums distractedly, “She’ll live.” Half lidded eyes gaze up at him through long lashes, and he smirks meaningfully. “I have far more important things to do right now.” 

 

Erik stifles a groan, diving in to suck bruises into the pale column of his neck, relishing the obscene noises that spill almost immediately out from kiss-swollen lips. Someone needs to stop this man and his awful puns.

 

Erik’s doing the world a favour, really.

 

 

 


End file.
